


Almost

by Comedia



Category: The Desolation of Smaug, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet, I wanted to write happy stories, I'm so sorry, M/M, alternate ending I guess?, but this happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 17:01:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1083466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Comedia/pseuds/Comedia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a brief moment Bilbo turns to Thorin. Taking his eyes off the wall is outright silly, but he knows there is a sight more important than the keyhole appearing. He wants to see Thorin’s expression as he is once again allowed to enter his kingdom.</p><p>But instead of happiness there is confusion. The sun has set, the last light of Durin’s day has passed, and nothing has revealed itself to them. Around them there are whispers that quickly turn to shouts. Many of the dwarfs rush to the wall, searching every crack and crevice with an urgency beyond anything Bilbo has ever seen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Almost

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this](http://comediakaidanovsky.tumblr.com/post/70034882804/i-think-sometimes-if-you-overthink-things-i-mean). I saw the quote and it was perfect. I just had to write something. And then I made myself sad.

 

It is with joy at heart they await the last light of Durin’s day. To think that their journey could have come to an end much sooner, and yet they made it to the Lonely Mountain in time; to the doorway that will take them to the halls that several members of the company once wandered, and the home of which Bilbo has heard many stories by now. The stone conceals unspeakable riches, a –hopefully sleeping – dragon, but more importantly; memories of a proud people. A culture once lost to an unspeakable beast will finally be returned to its rightful owners.

And they watch the sun set, golden rays burning as they turn to ruby. Bilbo can feel his heartbeat, excited and heavy like a drum, and it has been long since anything but fear made him feel this jittery. He can hear the breathing of the company around him; short, agitated breaths from some of the members, as if they are moments away from hyperventilating. There is the shuffling of feet, the clatter of pebbles being kicked across the rock beneath them, as no one can seem to stand perfectly still.

For a brief moment Bilbo turns to Thorin. Taking his eyes off the wall is outright silly, but he knows there is a sight more important than the keyhole appearing. He wants to see Thorin’s expression as he is once again allowed to enter his kingdom.

But instead of happiness there is confusion. The sun has set, the last light of Durin’s day has passed, and nothing has revealed itself to them. Around them there are whispers that quickly turn to shouts. Many of the dwarfs rush to the wall, searching every crack and crevice with an urgency beyond anything Bilbo has ever seen.

The day has not gone completely dark, although the last rays of the sun have disappeared only to leave the horizon a deep shade of ember. Bilbo worries that perhaps they are standing too close; perhaps they should not touch the wall in their search but instead stay back; perhaps their shadows are blocking the light. But he does not say anything, because he fears that words will be meaningless. His voice might not even carry at all.

They have faced countless horrors on their journey, and yet he has never felt such fear. It is as if a bottomless pit has opened within him, as if part of him is forever falling – the dread of falling from indescribable height with the knowledge that no one can save you.

As the sky goes dark and night envelops them Dwalin is still at the wall, muttering to himself and stroking the rock with his hands. What was once a gentle search done in fear of damaging the keyhole has now turned vicious. Bits and pieces of gravel fall to the ground as he grips the stone in hope for answers.

The others are quiet, or muttering in voices much too hushed to hear. Bilbo feels overwhelmed by cold, as if the ice water of Lake-town never quite reached his insides until now. The pain he feels is not his own, but then again, while he’s never seen the kingdom under the mountain, he has been longing for it lately. He has seen the passion with which his companions wished for their homeland, and found himself wishing as well.

It is uncertain how much time has passed since the sun set, but the chill of night has settled around them, and even Dwalin has given up his search. None has spoken to Thorin, and the dwarven king has not uttered a word either; his face as unmoving as the wall of rock in front of them.

As time goes by the rest of the company huddle not too far away, but still leaving some space to the king, and Bilbo is uncertain if it is out of fear or respect. He is amazed that they can even stand being a few steps away from Thorin at a moment like this, as he wants nothing more but reach out; hold the king tight and whispers words of comfort – even though he knows that there is nothing that could take this pain away.

The moon is bright with a sharp, unforgiving light, making their shadows long and distorted as they are cast against the stone. Bilbo has once again turned to the wall, and is all too busy studying the uneven surface, to notice that Thorin has moved. For some time now he has expected the king to lash out; to let out the anger he has felt for so long.

That this would end in quiet defeat never occurred to Bilbo, and so he only turns to Thorin once he’s slumped on the ground. Leaning forward his hair drapes around him, almost – but not entirely – hiding how he is sitting with his head in his hands.

The company has gone quiet, and Bilbo feels the need to do something, despite the fact that there is nothing he could do to solve this. Thorin’s normally majestic posture is now nothing but exhaustion, and the only movement is that of his shoulders as he keeps breathing deeply.

After a few movements of hesitation Bilbo sits down next to him. The chill of the rock quickly reach through his clothing, and he is so very cold by now, but he will remain by the king’s side, not matter how long they stay in this place.

In his life time, he has rarely done brave deeds. There are many things that have held him back, his lack of courage being one of them. Leaving Bag End was a surprising turn of events; something he could barely comprehend, even as he was rushing through the fields of the Shire in hope of catching up to the company. Since then their journey has been full of moments where he has had no choice but to be brave, many times against his better judgment. This is one of those times, as he leans his head against Thorin’s shoulder.

It is the only action that seems logical. Embracing the king would be too personal, but at the same time, Bilbo does not want there to be any space between them; he does not think that walking away would be the right thing to do. And so he shows his support the only way he can think of.

Thorin keeps his head in his hands for a long time, sitting perfectly still, and with a hint of the dignity he normally carries himself, his motionless form is like yet another dwarven statue of the lost city.

Cold winds are playing with Bilbo’s hair, the breeze like needles scratching his scalp. The company has started talking again, quiet and without emotion. There is neither sadness nor anger; the only way to describe them is how there is a lack of something that used to be there. Bilbo does not bother trying to hear their discussions. He is trying to get his mind going again. He is supposed to be thinking right now; he is supposed to trying to figure something out, because there has to be a solution. There has to be.

When Thorin drapes an arm across his shoulders he flinches, the warmth too unexpected and too sudden. The dwarven king seems to pay no mind though, simply tightening his grip a little, pulling Bilbo in closer. Wisps of grey and black hair fall around them, and Thorin’s voice is hoarse once he speaks.

“Did we miss anything?” The words are nothing but huffs of breath against Bilbo’s ear, and he is shivering even more than before.

“I do not know.” Shaking his head he can feel the curls of his hair entwine with Thorin’s. “I thought the moon… perhaps the stars…”

There really is no point to explain his theories in depth, mostly because they are barely worthy of being called theories. This night he has had few thoughts worth mentioning, most of them being nothing but desperation. Hopelessness.

“Then we wait.”

There are murmurs from the company in agreement, but they all stay in the background, neither approaching the wall nor their leader and their burglar.

The night slowly turns into dawn, the velvet skies a shade of peach as the stars fade. Bilbo has not studied his surroundings for quite some time, and he knows not how many companions are still awake; by the sound of it at least Dwalin and Balin have lasted through the night. At his side Thorin is still breathing evenly, his eyes downcast, as if his gaze could somehow keep the keyhole from appearing.

It is not very surprising when morning comes and there still has been no change. Not soon after sunrise Dwalin is by their side, gripping Thorin’s shoulder and holding on for quite some time, his head bowed in respect.

Bilbo stays on the ground, as he will rest in Thorin’s embrace for as long as it is granted him. He is there when Balin shows up, along with the lasts rays of sunrise, muttering a few words to Thorin in Khuzdul and giving Bilbo a nod of acknowledgement.

As the day goes by the company starts setting up a proper camp, partly around them, but still keeping a respectful distance. In the end they mostly make sure that the fire is close enough to keep their burglar and leader warm, no matter how long they end up remaining this way.

It is mid-day when Thorin shifts slightly, his arm leaving Bilbo’s shoulder only to grasp his hand instead. The dwarven king’s palm is rough, all texture, yet the touch is soft – caring. Bilbo is quick to entwine their fingers, feeling the heaviness of Thorin’s rings and trying hard not to think of the golden one he carries in his pocket; such darkness is not welcome during a time like this.

“How long were we lost in Mirkwood?”

Yet again, Thorin’s voice is little more than a whisper. It is raspy, the way people talk when they have been silent for a long time. But it is more than simply fatigue, Bilbo cannot help but feel that the faintness is meant to mask something – fear, perhaps. Fear that this was all for nothing, that they made it this far, and lost their prize because of a blunder along the way.

“I do not know for certain, but surely we would have found out if we had been completely wrong about the date?”

Thorin nods at that, squeezing Bilbo’s hand and turning to face the hobbit for the first time since they reached the keyhole. His eyes are weary, rapid in their movements, as if he is searching for something. For a moment they simply stare at each other, and Bilbo makes sure not to break eye contact. Whatever Thorin is searching for, it seems he finds it, as he eventually turns back to the wall.

By the time night falls, Dwalin returns to them, setting down two steaming bowls of soup on the ground. He does not speak, but lets his gaze linger on them.

Once he has left Bilbo lets go of Thorin’s hand; he cannot help himself. It has been long since he ate, in fact, he cannot remember the last proper meal he had. The soup is meaty in flavor and burns the roof of his mouth, but he does not care. He wonders where the company found the supplies for such a thing, but in order to ask them he would have to leave Thorin’s side, and that is something he is not ready to do yet.

Bilbo finishes his bowl of soup embarrassingly fast, and finds his gaze returning to the dwarven king almost involuntarily. Despite how tired Thorin looks, some grace has returned to his posture. He must be hungry, but he does not devour the soup like an animal. Instead he eats it slowly and with great appreciation, making sure that none of the liquid ends up in his beard.

Putting the bowl down he turns to Bilbo, his eyes firm and searching at the same time; while the dwarven king has been conflicted before, it is still a sight Bilbo is unused to.

“Come. We should sleep.”

Thorin reaches for his hand again, and Bilbo offers it willingly. They move closer to the company, but not by much. Most of the others have already gone to sleep, but Dwalin is sitting by the fire. His posture proud and intimidating, while his eyes are soft as he watches the king and the burglar.

As they lay down side by side the rock is cold beneath them, but Bilbo quickly finds warmth in Thorin’s intimacy again. His entire right side pressed against Thorin he watches the night sky, and cannot help but notice its beauty. It is clear and vast; the starlight faint but still present, much alike the way memories never truly fades. He falls asleep with a sense of calm, despite the situation they are in.

The next morning Thorin is still by his side, and Bilbo almost feels shame at the overwhelming relief this brings him. His mind is still sleep addled when he decides to speak, but his words are urgent, and he cannot keep them in anymore.

“You might not want to hear it, but I do think of you as King.”

Thorin is quiet at that, and for a moment his gaze hardens. He stares at the ground with gritted teeth, perhaps lost in thought – or perhaps trying to keep himself from doing something brash.

In the end he turns his gaze to Bilbo, and while his blue irises still hold more ice than anything else, there are the soft hints of a smile in the crowfeet around his eyes. “Hearing that warms my heart, Master Baggins.”

Bilbo smiles at that. It is a faint, thin smile – he can feel as much – but it is genuine, and that is the only thing that matters.

Thorin once again grabs his hand, and there is great joy in how this gesture is starting to become familiar. They share a moment of silence, and Bilbo is surprised to find himself speaking. It is almost as if he has lost control of his thoughts, and his words.

“We will wait for Gandalf. There must be answers. Perhaps we have been searching in the wrong places.”

Thorin hums in agreement, and they turn towards the rest of the company.

Their journey is not over yet, it has simply changed. They will wait, and they will watch, and they will investigate.  Many times have they encountered impossible odds, and every time they have made it through. This will not change.

With Thorin’s hand in his – embraced in his warmth each night – this will be bearable. They will wait. _Almost_ reaching their goal is simply not enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes I write short things on [tumblr](http://comediakaidanovsky.tumblr.com/) as well (but mostly I just cry about fictional characters).


End file.
